


Under Fire

by cavernofstars



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blood Kink, Bondage, Friendship, Kidnapped, Knife Play, M/M, Nipple Torture, Rope Bondage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 01:52:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10980873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cavernofstars/pseuds/cavernofstars
Summary: Moriarty had taken Sherlock hostage to play several little games. Most will involve the direct pleasure and torture of the detective himself, but Moriarty would hate to leave John out of all the fun. All the while keeping Sherlock under lock and key, Moriarty updates the doctor with texts and images of his captive.





	1. Grace Period

**Author's Note:**

> This will be expanded into a larger work which will deal with both John's point of view trying to find Sherlock, and Sherlock's point of view being tormented by Moriarty.

It was beeping again. Not buzzing, John reminded himself, blinking. It used to infuriate him, but now, now it just made him wince. Sherlock used to have him keep charge of his phone often. As if John ever really kept charge of anything in Sherlock’s world. No, everything in the world of Sherlock Holmes was exactly how he wanted it to be. Not a single strand or line out of place, not more than a breath away from his every command. And that was what brought him to the attention of Moriarty.  
Gripping the phone John pressed, perhaps a little too hard, to bring light to the screen. With a clench of his now more than just stubbled jaw he forced himself to open it. Another text. Another image. Sherlock’s phone. That blinking light. That damn buzzing he was now certain only existed in his mind.  
“Fuck.” He breathed. Lestrade would have to be called soon. And Mycroft, if John didn’t have a sinking feeling that he already knew what was going on; the older Holmes was just waiting for things to play out a little longer, to find his advantage. 

_Miss me?_

 

That was the first message. Well, the first message this hour, at least. Hardly any different from Moriarty’s usual calling card, but it still gave John an intense feeling of bile rising into the back of his throat. An urge it took his strong military calm and will to suppress. 

 

He downloaded the image. Sherlock, strapped to a chair, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, with a sign hanging around his neck, scrawled in crude maniacal penmanship _I have something that belongs to you, please, won’t you come and fetch?_

A response would be warranted, and yet John couldn’t bring himself to type anything. What could he say in a text message that would do anything to combat this injustice, and what could he possibly say that wouldn’t get Sherlock harmed further? Moriarty wouldn’t kill him. No, not yet, at least. That would spoil the fun. Why kill his toy, when he would then have nothing to play with? John sighed, clearly he was in no frame of mind to make a reply, make a deal make a trade. Why not me? He wondered. Wouldn’t it have been easier to kidnap him, to threaten his life again and make Sherlock dance? Or was that too old hat for Moriarty now? God knows he couldn’t be seen repeating himself, couldn’t be obvious. 

The phone lit up again. John remembered that he had turned it to silent. Couldn’t take that buzzing anymore, and yet he still had the echo ringing in his ears. Sliding his thumb across the screen he let the words assault his eyes and further imprison him in someone else’s world. Without thinking he threw the phone. Sherlock’s phone, sailing across the room. Let it break, let it shatter. Let that be the end of it. Subconsciously sticking his hand in his pocket John was met with the cool metallic touch of the end of his pistol. He gripped the end for a moment, testing the weight, becoming familiar with that extension of his arm once more. Into battle again, Dr. Watson, he rolled his shoulders back a few times. Gun in hand, his phone to his ear, it hardly had time to ring once. 

“Well, whatever are we going to do?” Came the eerily melodious voice on the other end. John could swear he heard just the slightest tinge of a smile in the background of a his question, and it made his stomach turn. Everything was a game to these people, and the end goal was always winning, to be redefined by each Holmes in his own time. There were no words, no plans, John could only think of action, duty for duties sake. Licking his lips he checked the chamber of his sidearm. 

“Now.” He barked, hanging up the phone and heading for the door.


	2. Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty invites Sherlock to wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where things start to become a bit more kinky, Sherlock's POV coming soon.

“Good morning.” Moriarty sing-songed, even though Sherlock had yet to open his eyes or show any indication at all that he was awake. The drugs he was given were rather strong, it seemed. And it was such a shame to damage that face, but he knew that the doctor who jump much more quickly if he thought his precious Sherlock were to be damaged. Of course, that was something he did not intend to do, yet. “Of course, you would never know what time of day it was down here. Or up here. Or over here. Where here!” Moriarty gestured wildly, doing a small twirl and amusing himself and the grandness of the gesture even though there was no audience. Of course, there could be an audience. Perhaps he should set up a live feed. Johnny boy could see in real time as his best mate was defiled and savoured. No, perhaps not. Best to leave some of it the imagination, get him all worked up and panting, Moriarty thought with a smile. “Sherlock.” He teased, walking behind him and running his hands over the tops of his shoulders. “Sherlock” he leaned down and whispered close to his ear, making certain to put special emphasis on the ‘k’. “It really is time we wake up now. You are doing a fantastic job playing dead, but I think we’ve heard that song one too many times already, wouldn’t you agree?” Moriarty stepped back and twirled the knife he had been holding around, twisting the point over his fingers. _Fine_. He thought with a sigh. Something would wake him up eventually. 

Going to his knees in front of the detective, Moriarty carefully untucked his shirt from his pants, and, using the knife, tore off the buttons one by one. Humming song as he made work of undressing his puppet, Moriarty could hardly contain his excitement. “One by one, down they go, where I’ll stop” he leaned forward to Sherlock’s ear again, biting at the lobe and giving a bit of a pull “nobody knows” he whispered.

Sitting back he once again waited for a reaction, but none game. “Dear me I surely do hope I haven’t killed you already. That would make this whole excersise rather.. Pointless” he finished with an exasperated sigh. Pushing the shirt back he now had an entirely exposed view of Sherlock’s chest. “Gorgeous” he whispered, running the knife blade gently down the center of his sternum and all the way to his navel. He gave a small prick, just enough to draw a bead of blood, just at the top of his trousers. Sherlock winced. “Good morning.” Moriarty said again “I wanted you awake for this part.” Licking his lips he leaned forward again, positioning himself between Sherlock’s knees and licked up the blood, placing one or two wet kisses where he’d made his first mark. Working his way up he lacked onto one nipple and took it between his teeth, biting gently and then pulling backwards as Sherlock let out a groan. “Wakey wakey.” Moriarty called as he gave the same attention to the other side. Letting his eyes dart up he noticed Sherlock’s eyes still partially lidded, and he was not at all getting the recognition he deserved for all this lavish attention. With one hand he took Sherlock’s left nipple and pinched, rolling it over and over while the nipple received a bite hard enough to draw blood. Sherlock yelped and his eyes strained to open completely. Better, Moriarty thought as he sucked and nursed the nipple he had just so viscously nipped. “You taste delicious” Moriarty complimented as he alternated between sucking and biting each nipple as well as pinching and rolling with his free hands. Sherlock was starting to thrash a bit now. Unfortunately he couldn’t talk yet, poor baby, Moriarty had made sure of that with his special cocktail, but he was struggling, which was just the beginning of their fun. 

“No no.” Moriarty admonished, as Sherlock opened his mouth and sat slack jaw, clearly horrified at his paralyzed vocal muscles. “You can’t talk. Not yet. Not that you could bother asking for it to stop, anyway. Not when I’m just getting started. What’s the matter? Don’t you like a little bit of teasing?” He toyed, running his knife over the stiffly pointed and pinched nipples. Letting out another chuckled when Sherlock pulled away, or, tried to. Taking a deep breath Moriarty let out a satisfied sigh and rubbed his palms over the tops of Sherlock’s thighs. “I know, you’d like to take it slow, but, we never know when big brother will come charging through these doors, so I’m afraid we will have to keep moving.” He nodded, cutting of Sherlock’s belt and moving his hand down his pants.


	3. Exhibition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty takes the time to document his art.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock will have a part in the next chapter I promise.

John was pacing. Steady. Rhythmic. Three steps forward, three steps back. He took a moment to imagine the wear he could drive into the floor if he kept up with this all day. His previous fire had lead him nowhere but into the foyer. Mycroft was not about to call to arms whatever and whomever he could call to arms without more information and definitely not without a plan. Callous as he may be, he was not brazen, not willing to risk Sherlock’s life unless absolutely necessary. So John had stood, awkwardly, with his hand on the doorknob and his blood pounding through his ears. Throwing the phone had been a foolish mistake. Now he had no direct communication with Moriarty, something he wasn’t yet sure if he should have severed. So, defeated, he trod back up the staircase to retrieve the phone, put its battery back in it’s casing, looked at the shattered screen and started it up again. It was blinking. There was a message. 

…

“Don’t want to leave out Johnny Boy do we?” A kiss to the neck, then Moriarty pulled back, reaching for yet another burner phone. He had plenty, and he’d be smashing each one after each individual message. Wouldn’t be much of a hunt if he left such an easy trail. He supposed he would have to ship Sherlock back eventually. The chase would get dull in time, and the last thing he needed from his only rival was a mundane routine. He walked around Sherlock in a steady and slow circle, making certain to get him from every angle. 

His hands, tied behind his back and beautifully chafed with just the right red of rope burn. The shirt he had so carefully buttoned this morning, all torn off and ripped open to display his pale chest with scorching red marks. Those marks that Moriarty hoped would last for days. His stiff, raw, and bruised nipples peaking out, Moriarty made absolutely sure to get a close up, John would want to see that. Yes, Sherlock would be sensitive for days. He would think about him every time something touched his chest. A shirt, the water in the shower, even a slight breeze. A crooked smile crossed his mouth as he thought about it, giving one a slight flick and watching Sherlock jump again. The detective’s eyes were following him all the time. Watching him like a lioness, as he circled, locking gazing every time Moriarty came back into view.  
“If you’re wondering what I am doing” Moriarty narrated with just a twinge of an irish lilt. “I’m.. documenting.” He chose his words carefully, wanted to make this seem official, as if John was complicit in it all.

“See, I couldn’t just kidnap you.” He pressed send, and turned the phone towards Sherlock’s face. “I wanted to make sure there were records of our time spent. For, posterity, you see. And when I considered who best to share this beautiful memory with,” Moriarty ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair, a mockery of a gesture made only by a lover “I could think of none other than Johnny Watson. You see” he glanced up and licked his lips, as if about to give Sherlock the answer to all of life’s secrets “you and I, we are always in control. We ‘get off on it’ some might like to say. I control you, I control John. Which makes me wonder” he picked up his knife again and trailed it along Sherlock’s throat, not hard enough to break the skin, just hard enough to retain his full attention “if John gets off on surrender.” Moriarty shuddered, a tingle going through him just at the utterance of such a delicious word. 

“I want your surrender.” He whispered, retracting the knife blade and pocketing it once more for future use. Pulling Sherlock’s cock from his pants he gave the now going limp member a few more pumps. It seemed the overtures placed upon his torso before had given Sherlock quite a tent in his pants, and Moriarty wasn’t cruel enough to let it go completely unnoticed. Besides, it would make a beautiful photo, a precursor for more explicit images to come. “That’s it” he breathed, doing just enough to get Sherlock hard and leaking. When beads of pre-cum started to appear on the head, he backed away and snatched up the phone, grabbing two or three shots. “Gorgeous.” He complimented, satisfied in his work. Turning it toward Sherlock’s face as proof of his exhibition, Moriarty hit send, attached a small object to the phone; sent it sailing across the room, where it detonated, destroyed.


End file.
